


The Isle

by ymaface



Series: The Witch's Quickening [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:27:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1741358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymaface/pseuds/ymaface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quick look at Morgana's life on Avalon. Follows The Witch's Quickening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Isle

 

The Island of Avalon was a place of refuge and peace. The beautiful spiralling gardens and ancient stone walls were as old as the land itself and nobody could boast to know of all its secrets, not even the great Lady of Avalon herself. Vivienne was a wise woman with a grace that could only come with time and patience. She encouraged the younger priestesses to respect Avalon and immerse themselves fully in its mystical powers. Sometimes they immersed themselves too far and never left the Island again.

Morgana despised her. She despised the island as much a she despised her bad fortune. To her the mysterious island represented despair and punishment. To her its watery edges were as restrictive as gaol bars.

She hated going to the daily prayer, watching through narrow eyes as the other meek priestesses went through the holy motions. They sang together, burning incense and herbs, and inhaled the fumes to achieve closeness to the Goddess above. These lithe righteous women were pious fools. They’d been selected from a young age to worship the Goddess and so were confident in the writings and rituals…but Morgana, whose powers could compete with Vivienne’s, had never had such an education. Instead she’d had to hide her powers from her family, suffering and thinking all the while that she was a freak. Her powers were rough and raw with no guidelines or limits. She hated these priestesses as much as she envied them.

She disliked the times of reflection as well. Pacing in the gardens was a daily torture to her – her, who had more than enough to reflect upon – and her already unravelled mind screamed in protest. Once she had lost control and set fire to one of the priestesses robes. That had earned her a week inside the citadel.

Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. Her physical appearance changed; her eyes were dull and lifeless and her beautiful figure became a shrunken mess of bones. Her hair, which had always been thick and glossy even when messy, grew lank and brittle. They’d tried to cut it but she screamed whenever anyone approached her with a blade and so it hung down her back like a filthy curtain. After several months she was called into Vivienne’s solar.

Vivienne looked calm and serene and yet Morgana could sense a disturbance beneath the surface. “It seems that the Goddess has blessed you. You are with child, Morgana.”

Morgana stretched out a hand across her stomach and for the first time in weeks a flicker of life crossed her features. The idea of something living and growing inside her bitter-filled womb was almost laughable.

“A child…a son,” she murmured. “Inside me.”

“Children are always a gift. We shall pray to the Mother Above for this wonderful blessing.”

A son. A little boy with black hair and bright blue eyes…

She closed her eyes and tried to feel the child inside her. The rush of energy and heat nearly made her dizzy. A grin stretched her lips. “He is powerful. I can already _feel_ his magic.”

Vivienne gave her a pitying look and her voice, when she spoke, was delicate. “Morgana…you will not be raising your child. It is to be sent to Camelot to be raised by your brother King Arthur.”

_You snake._

“No. I will not allow it.”

“It is not your choice.”

“You viper!” Morgana clutched at her completely flat stomach, grasping for anything she could hold. “Born from two such powerful beings… he will be destined for great things,” she predicted. “He will be powerful…more powerful than I, than his father, even more powerful than you. This I foresee.”

“Perhaps,” Vivienne allowed. “But you will never see it.”

She screamed and she howled but still they took away her baby. It had been a hard birth, leaving her body ruined beyond repair, and he was such a tiny little thing. She held him to her breast for only a moment and she kissed his forehead, whispering a secret that only he could hear. “Mordred. I name you Mordred, and you will shatter them all. You will be _great_.”

The idea of her son being nurtured by her pathetic excuse of a brother was enough to unhinge her mind further. She became a shattered shell, speaking riddles that only she could understand. Often she called out for her baby and begged her keepers to bring him back to her, not remembering that he was no longer on the island. Sometimes she even called out for her lover Mordred, wishing that he would come and pledge his soul to her again. She paced across her small room and begged and cried.

“I want Mordred!” she shrieked at Vivienne one day. “He should be here. Why does he not come?”

“Mordred was exiled from Camelot. I expect he is far away by now…that or dead.”

Morgana threw her a look of contempt. “He is not dead.”

“You can feel him? Even now?”

“I am always with him.”

Always and completely. They had been two halves of one twisted and battered soul.

As a child she could remember his bright blue eyes and frightened smile. As a man she could remember other, more precise, things; his pale white skin, his odd crooked smile, and his teeth when they bit down onto her neck.

She might’ve have wept to think of the small Druid boy. Had she ruined him? Twisted him to suit her dark purposes? Fortunately she had no more tears to spare.

Morgana turned her back on the aging priestess. Vivienne was powerful, yes, but she wouldn’t understand and Morgana couldn’t be bothered to explain it either. Morgana didn’t trouble with anything anymore. Her appearance completely disintegrated, as did her wits and confidence. In time her hair turned grey and wrinkles lined her shrunken features.

Until one night when the doors were left unattended. She didn’t even hesitate and hurried out of the citadel towards the dark black lake, her frail chest heaving from the effort. Her old limbs protested against the rush but her will was still strong.

 

The cold water felt like an embrace.

 _Mordred_ , she thought.

Death was quick. 


End file.
